If there is any doubt of my heritage, here is proof that I am a Ruffing.
Grandpa and I had a blast strapping this 28-stepper to the roof of my car, recalling many other foolish things those with the name Ruffing have strapped, lashed, placed, welded, or otherwise moved with their vehicles.
Towing a motorcycle through the back-streets of a Denver neighborhood to the repair shop. Cheryl up front driving the car and me in the back, "motor-skiing" with a rope and a complex set of hand signals. I'm no the first in my family to do this. Grandpa.
A stove lashed to the top of a 62 comet from Cleveland to Dayton. I don't remember, I was only two at the time.
An uncle, who we'll call Jim, as that's his name, driving to Florida with a few hundred gallons of gas strapped to his roof rack in the early 70s. If you think the price of gas today is causing us to do silly things...
That same uncle, with a building on top of his station wagon, driving through the Ohio late at night at a snail's pace for safety, cost, and convenience. You see, someone gave him the building if he wanted to take it apart for its materials. So he did. By hand. He'd take it apart through the evening, load up his waon and trailer, go to sleep in the building on a cot with an electric blanket and, rising at 3:00 am, would make the 2 hour drive back home with the building. He only fell asleep and drove into a corn field once.
Making a move from Federal Heights (north Denver) to Englewood (south Denver) with a 4 cylinder Chevy S-10 and a very overloaded U-Haul. I found out what the brakes were(n't) capable of. Woah!!! Woaah!! Come on, woah!!! It's hard to stop a small truck with a big load on a downhill stretch into a red light.
With the ladder, I hooked her up, gave her a good tug or two, and weaved my way northeast through the New Hampshire and Maine night, with the Red Sox and the Rays battling through 14 innings and a few naps at rest stops along the way.